The Harsh Reality of File Folder Confessionals
by Alexis6
Summary: New Ch: Syd and Vaughn take care of some "business" on the plane ride home.
1. Dinnertime Shadowing

**the/harsh/reality/of/filefolder/confessionals**

**note// This story takes place (AU) some time during the first season—so that means the following: Will doesn't know anything, Francie is not yet FauxFrancie, and MamaBristow's whereabouts is still unknown. But don't worry, the story's about Sydney and Vaughn, so it doesn't really matter. **

**IF YOU'D LIKE, YOU CAN SKIP THE REST OF THIS INTRODUCTORY NONSENSE.**

*** * * * * * * * * * ***

Author: Alexis

E-mail: hipstar22@hotmail.com

Feedback: Please, it would be much appreciated.

Distribution: Cover Me. Others please let me know.

Rating: PG to PG-13 to R for language (depending on chapter)

Classification: Romance, humor, drama, a little angst every now and then.

Spoilers: None. This story spans the timeline of pretty much the entire first season, but in a sort of Alternate Universe. Some actual Alias plotlines do apply though; everything you need to know will be in the text.

Summary: It's kind of hard to summarize--the focus is on the detail, not the plot. It's mainly about Sydney and Vaughn's relationship, and not much else. I like to think of it as taking the "_Felicity_ approach to _Alias_."

Disclaimer: I don't own a damn thing. (JJ and the cool people at ABC and Bad Robot do.)

* * * * * * * * * * * 

**chapter/one// DINNERTIME SHADOWING**

Buying a blender together: that was what solidified Michael's and Alice's status as a couple, and--as it turned out--was also the cause for their break-up, more or less. 

Michael, Vaughn to most (although he preferred to be called by his first name; people calling him by his last name made him feel like the male character in a Jane Austen novel), knew that much. His relationship with Alice and their status as A Couple wasn't the result of numerous dinners together with friends (all of which were couples, just like them), or the fact that they slept in the same bed practically every night (in his house, although she didn't live there), or the assertion of monogamy ("I trust you, I love you, etc, etc..), or the kissing, or the holding-hands-in-the-park, or the reciprocation of affection, or the near-proposal (on a whim, and a sudden rush of exhilaration, he almost, almost got down on one knee). No, it was the shopping excursion to buy a blender. That was what did it.

Nothing spelled out C-O-U-P-L-E more than going out to buy home appliances, _together_--so that you and your partner could come to a mutual agreement on the purchase of something you would mutually share. Michael wasn't exactly sure how they got to the point where they decided that they needed to buy a blender; after all, Alice didn't live there (even though she was there an awful lot), and neither of them cooked, which made the odds of either of them needing to blend something wildly out-of-favor. He did remember, however, a conversation whereby Alice had suggested that the kitchen needed to be spruced up; aside from all the regular kitchen constituents, all he had was a toaster and a microwave. He had probably just acquiesced to the demand to avoid another petty argument about his lifestyle, which, by all accounts, was exactly what most of their arguments were about. 

* * * * * *

"Who is Sydney Bristow?"

She didn't very much fancy people who talked about themselves in the third person, especially to themselves. But she couldn't help it... "Who the hell is Sydney Bristow?"

Sydney stood in front of her mirror, staring intently at her reflection the same way you stared intently at paintings in museums--not knowing exactly what you were looking at or what you were looking for, just knowing that there was something there to contemplate.

Usually people who tried to identify themselves did so by recounting things they had done. So: she had inadvertently killed two people she really, really cared about (one, her fiance; the other, an ex-boyfriend who probably would have been her fiance had he not left so abruptly). She had made her cold-as-dry-ice father--who had, admittedly, warmed up since--revert back to his cold state, by suggesting that she find her mother, the woman that tore his heart out, ripped it to pieces, and used it as confetti at a KGB party. She had made a habit of routinely kicking everyone's ass (all of them bad, mind you.) She had friends who believed she worked for a bank, when in fact she worked for the corporation of evil. In a nutshell, she had been living a double life within a double life: lying about one thing to the first person; telling the truth about that same thing--but at the same time lying about another thing--to the second person; and lying about everything altogether to the third person. What a life it was, indeed.

It would take too much time to justify all these actions and Sydney knew that, though she also knew exactly what those justifications would be. So she stuck to her late-evening routine: a bath (she just got out of one, so that was done), followed by some peaceful reading in bed, with candles and red wine. 

She pulled out a copy of Wuthering Heights, a copy that she had purchased at Border's the week before; she already owned a copy, but it was one of her mother's and for obvious reasons she didn't want to read that one.

* * * * * *

Michael didn't miss Alice--not really. They were always arguing--many of them were tiny disagreements, but every now and then they would have the massive blow-up, so massive that a relative stranger would be able to detect that it happened (Sydney, a while back, asked him if he and "his wife" had had a fight), and she was always nagging him, although the nagging didn't bother him so much. He was used to nagging: from his mother ("How come you don't have a wife... where are my grandchildren?"), from friends ("What do you mean you can't go out, it's Friday!?"), from past girlfriends ("All men are noncommittal fools!"), even from coworkers ("You're too emotionally attached!"). No, it wasn't the nagging. It was the introduction of other elements, the lack of understanding from the other party, and the fact that both these things turned everything into a complicated jumble.

First of all, Alice (a.) didn't understand things (b.) wasn't allowed to know about what she didn't understand, and (c.) became a raging maniac because she was wasn't allowed to know about things she didn't and shouldn't understand. 

Did that make sense? Of course it didn't; but then again--what breakups do?

Like it was stated earlier, everything started and ended with The Blender. But it wasn't that the blender was the catalyst that led to the breakup, per se. (The blender wouldn't be like the _match _that ignited the dynamite; but rather, it would more likely be the _person _who handed the match to the person who used it to ignite the dynamite.) 

Michael and Alice had an argument about his lifestyle--something about his job being his priority and not her (not an unusual complaint, many lonely housewives would say) and that he wasn't the person he once was. And that made him think, it made him reevaluate, it made him consider. Of course he wasn't the same person; he wasn't living the same life. (It would be rather unusual for the _life _someone was living to not correspond and correlate with the _someone _who was living that life.) And frankly speaking, his job _was _his priority; Alice hit that one right on the target.

The blender was a complicated matter, but easy to explain. You see, Alice wanted a Michael that wasn't Michael at all--an incarnation of a Michael that didn't and would never exist. She wanted a Michael that would be there all the time, a domestic Michael that would make malt beverages, and therefore be one to use a blender. That wasn't him; Michael knew that. In fact, he thought, they never should have bought the blender in the first place. It probably didn't seem like a big deal back then (he was just avoiding an argument, after all), but buying the blender together made some concession, however miniscule, to the existence of Alice's _Michael Incarnate _and it created a relationship based on a false reality. Alice wasn't aware of who he was, not then and especially not now. The whole blender thing helped him realize that. 

The argument lasted quite a while, with its peaks and dips, high points and low points. It would crescendo and decrescendo from shouting matches to whispered confessions. Michael and Alice would alternate being target and shooter. And in the end, when all was said and done, Michael felt relieved--at a loss, but relieved. 

* * * * * *

Sydney was sitting straight up in bed reading, though she wasn't exactly reading. Yes, she was silently reciting the words in her head, paragraph after paragraph, but her mind was elsewhere; it was drifting and wandering and exploring. She began thinking about herself--though she thought she was through with that already--and then she started to think about Danny, and how much she missed him.

Their breakup wasn't the result of an argument, unless you count the little disagreement they had shortly after the revelation of her true occupation, which Sydney didn't. It wasn't because they were drifting apart, and voluntarily decided to leave it at that. It wasn't because the powers-that-be prevented their love from blossoming (like if they were an angel and a devil in some sort of sci-fi movie). It wasn't because of religion, or conflicting interests, or parental disapproval, or anything equally trivial. It was because he was dead. Killed! Killed because of her!

One usually didn't recover from such a loss very easily. It was hard enough getting over your boyfriend who left you for the next girl, so you could imagine what this must've been like. He was taken from her against her will, and he was gone forever.

But thinking about Danny didn't make her sad, like it usually did. Actually, it was kind of pleasant. She remembered things she hadn't thought of in a while, little idiosyncrasies that made her chuckle every now and then: the way Danny proposed was the first thing that came to mind. And though she loved them, Danny was very much opposed to baths. ("You do nothing but soak in the filth you've accumulated throughout the day," he would say. She'd always assumed that his position on baths was the result of him being a doctor.) And Sydney never understood why Danny liked to order ridiculously simple home-foods at restaurants, like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or a grilled cheese sandwich, or better yet, cereal. Neither of them really cooked, but still... How hard was it to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at home, and what was so special about one from a restaurant? There were only so many ways you could specialize a two-ingredient sandwich, in her opinion. And there was practically nothing you could do to cereal.

Sydney put her book down; reading wasn't getting her anywhere, and although she enjoyed thinking about Danny, it wasn't safe to dwell in the past--not now, anyway. She had to sleep, and prepare for another strenuous day "at the office."

* * * * * *

Michael never really liked to throw Sydney into the whole "Alice breakup" equation. But she was there; she was a component. And now that Alice was gone, there was a vacancy, an open spot, and it was reserved. 

But Sydney never really took notice to the opening, even though she was made aware of it's availability a couple of months ago. 

The first time she met Vaughn she had blood spurting out of where a tooth used to be, her hair was "bozo" red (as she recalls him referencing it), and she had accused him--albeit, wrongly--of trying to play sneaky spy games with her. The second time they met she was too busy being Miss Thang to his rigid CIA persona. And the other times, well... either they weren't allowed to really look at each other, or they couldn't really see each other because they were in a barely-lighted warehouse, or they had too much on their minds to think about anything else. But now... now, it was different.

* * * * * *

Another mission meant another phone call from Joey's Pizza, which meant another secret meeting. So there they were yet again, in the self-storage facility, where, for some reason, darkness obscured half their faces. And for that reason, Vaughn thought, it was kind of weird admiring Sydney's face: one eye, half of her lips, a nostril. But nevermind, he would take all that he could get, and as of yet, this was all there was. As of yet...

Their conversations hardly ever deviated from the familiar branches: SD-6, CIA, the mission, the countermission, and every now and then, her problems, her apologies, her dad, her mom, his dad. All other exchanges not related to work were limited to mere small talk, small talk that consisted of a question followed by a couple-word response, then the same question redirected at the original asker. ("How was your Thanksgiving?" he would ask. "Good," she would say, "how was yours?") But today was different. They talked. And they talked some more. 

They had a conversation--not a forced question-and-answer type of conversation, but a free-flowing, getting-lost-in-the-groove type of conversation. Sydney said she had to go because she had class and she had to write a paper on Upton Sinclair, then Michael said how much The Jungle disturbed him. Then she agreed and said how much her appetite for meat had since declined (just a little bit, right after reading it), then he smiled and said that he could never give up meat, and she smiled and agreed, and he further elaborated by saying he could never give up meat because of his favorite chinese foods, then she said that she loved chinese food and asked him which was his favorite restaurant. He managed to explain, quite articulately, that he didn't have a favorite restaurant because his favorite dish didn't exist in a single place; you had to mix and match. (The best fried rice was at the Chinese Kitchen downtown, the best egg rolls were at Egg Roll King uptown, and the best sweet and sour pork, or most of the other entrees for that matter, were at the Golden Fortune by his house.) She was--to his surprise--intrigued and interested. And before they knew it, they had agreed to a chinese-dinner date. How, you might ask? Well, the rest of the conversation went like this: (what was SAID is in normal type, _what was _THOUGHT_ is in italics_).

Sydney: Yeah?

Michael: Yeah, but most of the time I just go to one place. But if I'm

motivated, I'll order take out from each place.

Sydney: I've never been to the Golden--what was it?

Michael: Fortune.

Sydney: Yeah. 

Michael: You should try it. But you need to know what to order. They have

good sweet and sour pork, but if you want beef and broccoli... you 

know, Chinese Kitchen has better beef and broccoli.

Sydney: Maybe I should take you when I go.

_((Sydney: Oh god, that sounded like I was asking him out.))_

Michael: Maybe.

_((Michael: Did I just agree to go out with her? Now there's a weird silence. Break the_

_weird silence.))_

Michael: I could show you how to order the perfect meal.

Sydney: I'd really like that.

Michael: Or maybe it'd be easier if I just ordered it and brought it to our next meeting. (beat) I mean, going place to place...

_((Michael: Now that sounded like I just asked _HER_ out for dinner.))_

Sydney: Uh-huh.

_((Sydney: Did I just agree to go to dinner with him?))_

Michael: ...whenever our next meeting is.

Sydney: Friday? Isn't that when our next meeting is? 7:00?

_((Sydney: Maybe that was a little too abrupt. But he did ask _ME.))

Michael: Yeah, uh, I think you're right, Friday.

Sydney: Okay. Well, I gotta go. I'm late for class.

Michael: Okay.

And that was that: Friday, 7:00, chinese. Was it a date? It couldn't be a real date because first of all, they weren't allowed to date, and second of all, they were going to meet in a caged storage facility. And to top it all off, it was--to be perfectly honest-- a weird way of asserting a "date." It wasn't like he asked and she accepted, or the other way around. In this twisted circumstance both had asked each other (in an ambiguous, irrelevant way) and both had accepted (in a vaguely hesitant way). Maybe it was a pseudo-date, like the one Joey and Rachel had on _Friends_? Whatever it was, it was set: Friday, 7:00, Chinese.

* * * * * * 

The notion of going out on a date--or whatever you wanted to call it--with Sydney set off a complicated stream of indulgent daydreams in Michael's head. (When your mind wandered, you couldn't really control where it went, could you? Moreover, even when you did try to control it, some superseding power relentlessly held your mind on that topic, which--in this case--was Sydney).

Michael entertained the fantasy of he and Sydney as a couple: what they would be like, who their mutual friends would be, what they would do when they went out and where they would go, what kinds of fights they would have, if they had any at all, what kind of relationship their respective parents would have with each other--that kind of thing. And before he knew it, he had invented an entirely new world: their world. And it was nice, their world. Sure, it wasn't perfect--even though it could be; after all, it was just a dream. But Michael liked to think of it as an_ imaginary reality_, and absolute perfection would take away the _reality _aspect of it.

And in this_ imaginary reality_, Michael figured, he and Sydney would be opposites, but not complete opposites, not opposites meaning a violent personality clash, but opposites in the little things. For example: if it was a peculiarly warm, sunny day in the middle of January, and they decided to go for a walk, he would bring a jacket as a precautionary measure and advise her to do the same. And accordingly, she would refuse, trusting the seemingly good nature of the weather at its current condition. Therefore, he would be the cautious, tread-carefully, safety-first kind of guy, and she would be the free-spirited, let's-just-do-it kind of girl (though this didn't mean that he was spineless and she was reckless, it just meant... well, you know what it meant).

Moreover, Michael thought, their opposing personality traits would compliment each other. Since he liked the dark meat of the chicken, she would prefer the white meat, meaning that if they were to order a whole rotisserie chicken to share between them, then there wouldn't be any arguing about who got what piece, and--as a great service to humanity, and a real kick to all the parents who like to introduce the topic of "starving children in Africa" as a means of getting their kids to finish their food--they would effectively make sure no part of the chicken would go to waste. That, in his opinion, was the making of a long-lasting, loving, caring relationship. Now the only thing was finding out whether even a tiny speck of this_ imaginary reality _held any ground in the _actual realtiy_. He'd find out soon enough. Their date, or whatever you wanted to call it, was only an hour away.

* * * * * *

Sydney had only caught a glimpse of Alice, and not even the real Alice, just a picture of Alice (a picture of Alice and Vaughn moreover) displayed on Vaughn's desk. And if she had not met Vaughn earlier and recognized that the man in the picture was indeed him, she would have presumed the picture was one that came with the frame. (You had the happy couple, big smiles, arms wrapped around each other. All you needed was, say, a lake and a rowboat, or a picnic, and maybe a soft focus filter for effect. But they were situated by a tree, which filled in fine for the absence of the rowboat, picnic, and soft focus.)

The picture was stuck in her mind, and she wasn't quite sure why. Maybe it was because Vaughn had swiftly turned the frame away when he caught her looking at it, and that provoked her to think about it. Or maybe it reminded Sydney of her and Danny. Or maybe it was something about Alice.

The truth was, she did think about Alice, for some odd reason. She wondered what Vaughn saw in her. And it wasn't that Alice wasn't appealing, because she certainly was pretty. It was just that Sydney didn't see Alice and Vaughn as the right match. Alice seemed like the run-of-the-mill post-modern woman who still carried traditional values. (In ten years time, Sydney imagined, if Alice and Vaughn were still together--even though they weren't together at the present time, but anyway--Alice would be the superwife, juggling a job, yet still obliged to be the soccermom, the one who would drive the kids to practice in the minivan, the one who would be torn on whether to cook the casserole or the lasagna because moms and pops were visiting for the weekend.) Now, there wasn't anything wrong with that kind of life. It was just that... well, she didn't see Vaughn as the kind of guy for that kind of girl. (It's important to note here that Sydney's creation of Alice as Mrs. Vaughn and her surrounding world based on a single photograph might not actually be true--just to clarify.) Nevertheless...

Michael Vaughn, she thought, just wasn't Alice material. Was he Sydney Bristow material, for that matter? If Alice resided on one end of the lifestyle spectrum, then Sydney most certainly would be on the tail end of the opposite side of that very spectrum. And Vaughn didn't seem to be interested in the _Anti-Alice_--which, in Sydney's mind, was exactly what she was--because he looked pretty happy in the picture. But then again, he and Alice had broken up, and she had a date--or whatever you wanted to call it--with Vaughn tonight.

* * * * * *

Michael and Sydney met in the self-storage facility. It was 7:00 and the smell of chinese food filled the air. 

Sydney walked in, but not in the urgent way she was used to. This wasn't a normal meeting, which meant that she had nothing to be urgent about, which meant that Vaughn wouldn't immediately whip out a file folder or jump into his spiel like he usually did. And this definitely was cause for panic. What was this (a date?) and how was she supposed to act? Suppose she considered this a half-date and came off semi-flirtatious, when he didn't consider this a date at all, thus making even an ounce of flirt in her tone of voice inappropriate. Or suppose she treated this just like one of their normal meetings, when he approached it like a date, then she would come off as cold and inconsiderate and he wouldn't know what to do and it would become awkward. So she walked in slow, looked around, and took in the ambiance that Vaughn had set for her, hoping it would help her determine the mood.

Michael had arrived earlier; he had to pick up the chinese food and set up the table. He wanted to make it intimate, but at the same time he didn't want to freak her out by coming on too strong. So he covered the table with a tasteful, but not too fancy, tablecloth, and placed a candle in the middle (if she commented on how the candle made it too romantic for her taste--even though he knew she wouldn't just come out and say it--then he could explain that it was just a source of light, since the warehouse was very dark. That was good reasoning, he thought). He placed two folding chairs on either side of the table, and left all the food in the boxes--presenting a dish would be too much. And anyway, if the tablecloth and candle were too romantic, then the casual presentation of food still-in-the-box would take down the romance factor a couple notches, and that would set an appropriate tone for the evening. 

The dinner was amazing. Interspersed conversations punctuated each savored bite of chinese food. The evening, in their opinion, was absolute perfection: great food, great conversation, a great person to share the moment with. And though they tried to prolong it as much as possible, they knew the night couldn't last forever. But both Sydney and Michael went home satisfied, knowing that this wouldn't be the last time they had _this _type of meeting. Michael in particular left confident: something had assured him.

He had brought all the foods he had mentioned to Sydney, but also brought a plate of teriyaki chicken (and it wasn't cut-up chunks of chicken; it was whole pieces like the pieces you get when you order fried chicken). And when they were passing boxes and dumping food onto their plates, Michael pushed the teriyaki chicken platter towards Sydney; she smiled at the offering, reached in with her fork, cast aside the drumstick and wing, and pulled out the half-breast. 

Michael smiled to himself. This was going to work, all right.


	2. So Impossible

****

chapter/two// SO IMPOSSIBLE

"If Jack gets on a horse... and Jack can't get off the horse... will you... help Jack off the horse?"

Will told the worst jokes. He liked to think otherwise--but yes, he was the worst joke teller Sydney had ever known. She usually laughed, though--not at the joke, at the teller--but this time she didn't respond. Will had managed to squeeze a mild chuckle out of Francie, but nothing out of Sydney, not even the usual exaggerated sigh or downcast head-shake, and that made him wonder.

"What's up?" Will asked, as if not-laughing-at-his-jokes meant there was something seriously wrong with you.

"Nothing."

Actually, _everything_, Sydney thought. School. Work. The date, or whatever you wanted to call it, she'd had with Vaughn a week ago (she hadn't seen him since). Everything was coming together and falling apart at the same time (if that made sense--and it didn't to Sydney; that's why she was so pre-occupied with it all).

Okay, so she'd had a date with Vaughn. Big deal. They had a nice dinner, and went their separate ways. It wasn't like they got caught in the heat of the moment, stripped down to their bare bodies gripped in a tumultuous whirlwind of feverish passion, and made sweet love on the cold concrete floor of the warehouse. No, they ate and talked. Millions of people did that everyday, millions of people were probably doing that right now. So how come it was such a big deal? 

And it _was_ a big deal, Sydney realized after minutes of contemplation. Eating and talking might have been as mundane and banal as dusting off the furniture, but that particular dinner brought with it all-too-obvious complications and oh-so-subtle implications. And the main thing--the main problem--Sydney could see, was how she was going to act the next time she saw Vaughn, and in case he acted first, how she was going to react. Was she going to play it cool and nonchalant? Or was she going to swallow her pride and just come out with it: "Vaughn, I don't know about you, but that date--or whatever you want to call it--it _meant_ something to me." This was an important decision; it wasn't a _white shirt_ or _blue shirt_?--_Cocoa Pebbles_ or _Fruity Pebbles_?--kind of decision. This was a _Ben_ or _Noel_? kind of decision (she'd always been partial to Noel for some reason, don't ask why). How she acted around Vaughn the next Joey's Pizza call could, at its peak potential, indicate the status of their relationship, and build the foundation of their relationship, if they had one, and pretty much determine the rest of her life (yes, it was a little extreme, but you know that movie _Run Lola Run_, where even a little tiny, itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, seemingly insignificant thing could completely change the sequence and course of events? It was kind of like that.)

"Hey." Francie broke the silence. They had been sitting there, at the dinner table, very quietly for the past couple of minutes; apparently the conversation stopped dead after Will's joke. "What are you doing Saturday night?"

"Who, me?" Sydney asked, still a little out of it.

"Yeah."

"I don't know. Why?"

"Just..." Francie paused, and gave Sydney a little wink of a smile. Sydney knew that Francie only did that when she wanted something.

"What?"

"I need a favor. And I think it'll do you good also."

"What is it?"

"You know how I told you I met this guy, Steven, well we're going out Saturday."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"I agreed to make it a double date."

"Oh... Francie."

"No, I know, but c'mon Syd, you need to get out. All you do is work and study."

Francie was partially right, of course--most of Sydney's hours were consumed by term papers or "bank stuff"--but she wasn't aware of Sydney's illicit dinner dates with her CIA case handler (okay, they'd only had one, but hopefully they would have more). And as much as Sydney didn't want to participate in this double date, she wasn't about to bring up one Michael Vaughn as a means of getting out of it--doing that would require a hell of a lot of explaining, and Sydney didn't want to do any explaining. She wasn't supposed to anyway. 

"C'mon. I promise he won't be psycho." As soon as Francie said that, Sydney knew he was going to be psycho. 

"I don't know." Whether or not he was psycho didn't really matter, though--it wasn't the point. And unfortunately, the real point didn't matter either, because she wouldn't, couldn't bring it up with Francie. 

Then there was a silence.

Francie had mastered the art of asking-for-favors. She didn't beg and plead with desperation like the rest of them; she asked and quietly waited for you to answer--which was what she was doing now--and that quiet period was, in itself, a kind of courteous coercion.

"Okay..." Honestly, Sydney felt sort of obliged to join Francie on this double date, as if she owed her something. She had already rejected Francie's other invitations a number of times before (and another rejection would cause some sort of argument, at the very least). What harm would it do anyway?

******

Michael heard a knock at the door and went to answer it.

"Hi," she said.

"...hi," he said after a slight pause, after the initial shock wore off. "What are you doing here?"

"Just... came round, I guess. Just wanted to see you... you know..."

"Is everything all right?" 

"Yeah... I mean... everything's fine... except, you know, well... I've been thinking about you a lot, Michael."

"Oh." He wasn't sure what to say next.

Alice stood outside the door for a while; Michael had neglected to ask her to come in, and she didn't feel comfortable enough to slide past him and let herself in, given their current relationship climate.

Then he realized. "Oh, do you wanna come in?"

She nodded gently and made her way to the living room, plopped her purse onto the reclining chair, and sat down on the right side of the sofa--just like she always did--and that gave Michael an ill feeling inside. He disguised it though, and went with the moment, sitting down next to her on the couch.

"Do you want something to drink?" Saying these words gave him another ill feeling inside: they suggested that he was talking to someone who had never helped herself to a drink before, someone who had never been inside his house, someone he hardly knew at all. It was funny, because here he was, with the woman who had spent the past year and a half living in this house (well, not exactly living, but she was here all the time, so practically living in this house), sharing laughter and joy and disappointment and frustration and all the rest of it, with him. And all he could do now was ask her what you would politely ask any other relative stranger inside your home--whether she would care for a beverage.

"No thanks."

There was a quiet desperation in both of them to get some sort of conversation started, but this wasn't the type of situation where you could just bring up any random topic and start discussing it. "Hey, have you tried the new Vanilla Coke?" Michael didn't think this was the proper time to ask her about new cola flavors. He didn't think it was his responsibility to do the talking here either; it was her's. She was the one that came over, she initiated this--not him. It was like calling someone up, remaining silent, and expecting the person on the other end--the person who was still wondering why you called them up in the first place--to deliver a monologue.

"Michael..."

"Yeah?"

"I miss you."

Did he miss her, too? Obviously the noble, benevolent thing to do would be to respond with "I miss you too." But Michael wasn't sure, and he wasn't about to concede even a hint of an impulsive desire to restore what was left of their relationship. It was amazing then, how Alice ended up spending the night.

******

The double date went fine, not good, not terrible, if you didn't count one little incident that happened toward the end. Francie (who gave the impression that she was over Charlie completely) and Steven got along famously, but the same couldn't be said about Sydney and that other guy (Syd forgot his name, and would prefer not to remember.)

As far as that "incident that happened toward the end of the date" was concerned, it would be much better not to divulge any details. It would read too much like those like those corny, hideously cheesy, post-adolescent, pre-teen entries in "Seventeen" or "YM" about how totally embarrassing something was. But the reader should at least know a little bit, right? Nah, it wasn't important, and besides, Sydney had too much on her mind to think about it anyway. Let's just say that going on this date (or being "the accompanying presence for the other guy not in a relationship so he wouldn't feel like the third wheel," as Sydney saw it) left her in an odd state: she missed Danny so much she wanted to run away with Vaughn.

******

So, Alice spent the night--that phrase has connotations, of course--and Michael wasn't quite sure how it happened. Alice had dropped by unexpectedly, not to have a drink, but to tell him that she missed him; she wanted to renew what was left of their relationship--and Michael was pretty sure that he didn't want the same thing. So how did he end up lying in bed next to her in a very intimate post-coital position?

Michael traced back his steps, but to no avail; it would take much deeper thought to unravel this mystery. One usually didn't go from having a vaguely awkward brief exchange of words with an ex-girlfriend to engaging in an act that more or less erased the "ex" part of "ex-girlfriend." Surely something must have happened in between, something with enough substance and momentum and inertia to bring them all the way to this point. And that something had to be microscopic and inconspicuous, because Michael couldn't see it, no matter how hard he searched and stared and squinted.

"I missed this, Michael... I missed us." Alice said as she snuggled up closer. They were the first words she uttered after, and funnily enough, they were also the same words she uttered before. The only difference now was that she said it using the past tense, meaning that she didn't miss it anymore. There was a period when she didn't have it and she missed it; she didn't miss it now because she had it now and there was no reason to miss something you already had. And those words, exactly as they were--"I missed this, I missed us"--they alarmed Michael.

What did she think? She acted as if everything was all right now, Michael thought--as if their temporary break from each other had sanded down the nicks and rough edges, and had left them with a smooth clean surface to start all over from. It hadn't. Everything was as jagged and thorny as it had always been. Apparently she'd forgotten why they broke up in the first place--it was something, Michael knew, that couldn't be fixed.

She snuggled up even closer, and he didn't know why, but this was as comfortable as he had been in quite a long time, despite the way he thought he was supposed to feel about it.

******

Who was Michael Vaughn? Aside from getting to know the Vaughn who briefed her on countermissions, consoled her at times with comforting arms and sensitive ears, and saved her tail every now and then, Sydney didn't really know Vaughn--not really. And this was a problem, she realized. 

The Vaughn she knew? That was CIA Vaughn. And the other Vaughn, the real Vaughn? He was a complete stranger. She knew the "Michael" part of Vaughn existed, she just didn't know how to reach it, and if it was even possible given their situation. He was inaccessible, as far as Sydney was concerned; she didn't even feel casual enough to call him by his first name. 

The phone rang. Joey's Pizza. Here we go.

******

There was a very formal, professional atmosphere around them as they discussed, in great detail, the next CIA countermission. They really didn't have the freedom and laxity that had been present during the last couple of Joey's Pizza meetings; this countermission was complicated and dangerous. So neither Sydney nor Vaughn knew, or received any hint, how the other felt about that dinner. 

Sydney felt betrayed; this wasn't the plan. This wasn't how this meeting was supposed to go. It wasn't supposed to go from "Hi" to "Devlin wants you to do this" without any perspective on the grounds of their relationship. She wanted a sign. She silently pleaded for him to give her a sign. And if he wasn't going to give her a sign, then she would have to give him a sign. Sydney wondered how Vaughn would feel if she called him "Michael?"

"Michael." Sydney practically whispered.

"Alice," Vaughn said abruptly. 

"What?" Sydney had been too busy thinking about how she would call him Michael for the first time that she completely blinked on reality. She had missed the part where Vaughn's beeper went off, and he was merely informing her who it was. 

"What?" he said, in an off-guard tone that echoed Sydney's.

"What?" That was three "whats" in a row. One more "what" and this conversion was sure to nose-dive into point-of-no-return oblivion. 

"What?" Vaughn asked. "What did you say?"

She wasn't sure whether he heard or not. "Nothing. What were you saying?"

Vaughn paused for breath, a gesture that suggested he was pulling back the throttle and setting this conversation back on its proper course. 

"Oh. Alice, she just paged me."

Alice!--Sydney thought--why on earth was Alice paging him? Surely Alice wouldn't have the cheek to randomly page ex-boyfriends... Unless this wasn't a random page because he wasn't her ex-boyfriend anymore. At first Sydney thought that Vaughn had accidentally called her Alice, which just a second ago had left her with an awful feeling, but now it wasn't so bad--certainly not as bad as the real Alice interrupting their meeting, their relationship, their future together as a couple. 

Sydney knew that a relationship with Vaughn was going to be complicated, to say the least. There were going to be problems, yes. But Alice was supposed to be out of the picture; she didn't think Alice was going to be the one to fuck it all up.


	3. The Sharp Hint of New Tears

****

chapter/three// THE SHARP HINT OF NEW TEARS

"Where the fuck have you been?"

Sydney didn't expect to be greeted with such hostility upon her return; she had just gotten back from an emotionally draining and physically straining mission, and she had been hoping that her home and her friends were going to provide a better environment than the one the group of renegade terrorists and nuclear arms dealers had. Apparently they didn't--although admittedly the hostility was a lot less life-threatening.

"Oh, just saving the world from complete obliteration." Sydney wanted to match Francie's hostility, but decided against it.

"Boston. Why?" The same answer, every single time. Sydney thought it was getting kind of old, honestly.

"You missed my reading."

"Your what?"

"My reading."

"What's that?"

"My reading!"

Apparently the succinct "my reading" was suppose to clarify, and apparently the fact that it was shouted the second time meant there was no need for further elaboration.

"What does that mean, your reading?"

"My poetry reading!"

"Poetry?"

"Yes. You said you'd be there!"

"Since when did you write poetry?"

Francie didn't answer; she made a face intended to convey that Sydney was, at this moment, a grade-A, first class, top notch, evil bitch. Sydney knew this look was hard to conjure up, and that Francie couldn't be that mad--certainly she was mad, but not that mad. She had to have mustered up some extra anger to add to the current and original anger to have created that look.

"Do you ever listen? No, that's right, you're too busy thinking about accounts and loans to be bothered by anything else." Francie didn't want to break the face, Sydney could tell, but she wanted to hit Sydney back with something more.

"I'm only thinking about accounts and loans because someone around here needs 

to pay rent." This was obviously the right retaliation.

"I-m... Business is slow right now. And I'm working my ASS OFF at school. And I don't have time for anything... I'm BUSY all day."

"Yes. Apparently writing poetry." Okay, that was unnecessary--Sydney knew that--but so was this entire argument, and in any argument where the point wasn't very clear, anything could be thrown into the mix, no matter how irrelevant or uncalled for.

Francie didn't answer, probably because she didn't have an answer. She turned around, scampered into her room, and slammed the door. Sydney wanted to give her a return door-slam--it was the natural response to any door-slam--but seeing as she was in the living room and the nearest door to slam was the front door, Sydney didn't think it was very wise to actually exit her own house. She could, of course, slam the door to her bedroom, but then that would require a hasty walk to her room--one that Francie wouldn't be witness to, so what was the point anyway--that would take... well, a few seconds at least, and those few seconds would be too long, because there was only a tiny window of opportunity in which the return door-slam was effective. 

So Sydney did nothing. She took a seat on the couch, turned on the TV, and sighed. This had been quite a week; it was time to relax.

******

"What are you doing?" Michael asked, deeply curious.

Alice spit out some of the toothpaste foam that had bubbled in her mouth. 

"What?"

"What are you doing?" He repeated the question, but with more authority.

"What does it look like I'm doing? Brushing my teeth." 

"Yeah, I see that." Michael paused to make sure, and then when he confirmed it... "Are you using my toothbrush?"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot mine." She said it as if it was no big deal, but to Michael it was a big deal. In his opinion, you said "Oh yeah, I forgot" when someone reminded you to put two sugars in their coffee, because you'd made them a cup and had somehow forgotten the two sugars. You didn't say "Oh yeah, I forgot" when you were scraping your teeth with an instrument that wasn't yours. Alice's response disgusted him, but not nearly as much as her insouciant use of his toothbrush.

"So you're just using mine."

"Yeah, I didn't think you'd mind."

Michael just looked at her.

"What? What's the big deal? It's never bothered you before."

Before? There was a before? Michael became even more disgusted. He could just imagine all those times when he had unknowingly brushed his teeth with a toothbrush that had been mucked up with _someone else's_ plaque and tartar and gingivitis and God-knows-what-else. 

Sure, one could argue that it wasn't a big deal, that they'd shared other things, much more involved things, much more disgusting things (when you thought about it). They kissed--of course they kissed--and such an act required the exchange of saliva and other things resting in someone's mouth--a lot of the things a toothbrush would pick up. And sex. Sex involved the transfer of certain bodily fluids. But there was a difference, Michael knew. You didn't kiss just so you could swap spit, and you certainly didn't have sex just to inject semen (unless you were a deeply devout religious person who so strongly believed that the sole purpose of intercourse was to create new life). There were exciting, thrilling human rewards in these things; there were no exciting, thrilling human rewards in sharing a toothbrush. 

And sure, one could also argue that it wasn't a big deal because _it was Alice_. She was his mate, his partner, his companion; he was supposed to be comfortable with her. But the thing was, he wasn't _ that _comfortable with her (not comfortable enough to share a toothbrush, that is), and he would probably _never_ be that comfortable with her, or anyone for that matter... Except maybe for Sydney. 

Would he share a toothbrush with Sydney? Probably, because--let's face it--he would do anything,_ anything_ for Sydney... And that included letting her use his toothbrush.

So what did that mean? Michael was confused: he would be willing (and glad to) lend Sydney his toothbrush, with no reservations whatsoever. But he was so disgusted by Alice's use of his toothbrush (he would hold off on brushing until he purchased a new toothbrush as soon as possible the next morning) that he had spent the past five minutes ranting to her face about it. Why was it that he would much rather share a toothbrush with a co-worker, his client, if you will, than with his own girlfriend?

******

Sydney was bored--something that didn't happen very often, because she was always busy with something--and she didn't like it, not one bit. Being bored meant you weren't doing anything. And not doing anything meant you had time to sit and think. And Sydney didn't want to sit and think; now was a bad time in particular because there was too much to think about. But when you were bored and weren't doing anything, your mind inevitable took control, and you ended up thinking about things you didn't want to think about, no matter how much you didn't want to think about them. 

School, work, family, friends, Vaughn: these things were all getting to be too much for Sydney to deal with, let alone think about. It was finals week at school. The whole Rambaldi thing was getting increasingly ridiculous. Her mother had supposedly been resurrected from the dead. Her father was off the wagon (or was it _on the wagon_? She'd always been confused.) Francie, the recently reincarnated poet, in particular, was starting to get on her nerves. And Vaughn... He was the one giving her the most trouble. 

What was she going to do about Vaughn? Act perfectly normal the next time they met? Send her regards to Alice? Wish them luck and tell them to have a nice life together? Not a chance--but what else was she going to do? Make the meeting weird and uncomfortable? Ask him to throw Alice out with the rest of the garbage? Ask him to run off to the Bahamas with her? She couldn't do that either. 

Fuck! This was all too much! 

She had to get her mind off of all these things, so she turned her attention back to the TV. A _Charles in Charge_ rerun was on. This would help her get her mind off of things; she had quite enjoyed the show back in the day.

******

Why did he always end up doing something that he regretted later on? This was a chronic problem for Michael; he could never grasp the concept of consequences. He had some sort of a past-present-future disability or dyslexia. He was okay with the past; he was able to analyze it (usually only when he felt an overwhelming need to), and more importantly, he was able to understand it. The present was fine as well--it was where he was most comfortable because he was good at the actions themselves. But the future... The future was what he didn't understand. He thought about the future, nonetheless, attempting to examine situations, linking this to that and trying to think ahead--but mostly those situations were facile or irrelevant, with no connection to the real world at all. And unfortunately, the real world--the world he didn't get--was where everything important lived and breathed.

Why didn't he see things ahead of time? Why didn't he see _this_ ahead of time. You didn't need clairvoyant powers to see what would happen if he let Alice back into his life. _Of course_, this would happen. Why didn't he see it then, dammit? He should have stopped her right then and there, when she was at the front door; he should have treated her as if she were one of those door-to-door solicitors: politely say 'I'm busy right now,' then politely say 'no thank you' because she couldn't take a hint, then slowly yet firmly shut the door.

But it was too late, because Alice was inside his house, sitting on his couch, eating his left-over lasagna, watching TV--_Felicity_, to be precise--when he wanted to watch something else... with someone else. 

"I wanna watch the West Wing," Michael said as he sat down on the couch. 

She put a finger up to hush.

"Shh... I wanna see what Noel will say." 

"I wa--"

"Shh."

"I--"

"Shh."

"Alice."

"Shh... tell me when it's commercial."

Okay, Alice pushed it a little too far, Michael thought. She was a little too comfortable here--and it just wasn't appropriate when he was feeling a little too uneasy. And this was _his_ house. Not only was she in attendance at place she wasn't supposed to be invited to, but she was acting like she was the center of attention, the life of the party.

******

Practically every _Charles In Charge_ episode fit the same paradigm: everyone had a problem, including Charles, and it was Charles's responsibility, and most of the time _only_ his, to solve them. The whole episode was about problems--problems and nothing but problems (mostly). Sydney thought _Charles In Charge_ would help her get her mind off of things, but how was a show about problems going to help her forget about her problems?

Sydney understood Charles, now more than ever. For the longest time Charles was just cute--he was nothing more than just another 80's pretty-boy novelty--and that was why she watched the show. But now, Charles was her equal: they were one in the same. Both their forts were under constant siege by an army of problems, relentless in their mission, day in and day out. Everyone's problem was their problem, and that was just how it was. Sloane passed his problems onto her (mission-wise), her family had no other discernible characteristic except for that of being problematic, and her friends (okay, Francie) had just jumped into problem pool with everyone else.

Sydney had learned to accept her role as the ultimate problem-solver, but sometimes it was just too much to bear, especially since the army of attackers consisted of a fifteenth century fortune-teller, a frustratingly distant father, a mysteriously undead mother, and that fucking CIA handler.

By the time the end credits began to roll, Sydney had built herself up to the point where she was ready to explode; she needed a release, and thus felt the sharp hint of new tears approaching. Crying was an effective method of ventilation, one that bore major significance, because Sydney only cried on the rare occasion that called for it. (The last time she cried, like _really_ cried, was when Danny died, and during the mourning period directly after. She also let out a stream of tears and emotions when her father failed to show up to their scheduled dinner that one night.)

And the last time she cried, she had someone who was there, on the pier, to listen. But this time, he was a part of the problem. She could call him though, but it was probably better not to. But maybe she should. No, she shouldn't. She definitely shouldn't. But then again, it might help. But then again, it might make it worse. He was probably busy anyway, and she didn't want to call while he was "busy" with Alice, definitely. So it was settled, she wouldn't call. This was her problem--not his. But then again, he was her handler, and he was supposed to handle her (case, that is). Her problems were related to work (more or less, indirectly), and therefore he held some responsibility in the matter. So maybe she should call him; it was his duty to report to her. But then wouldn't that make it worse? If he was only there to comfort her because it was his job, his obligation? No... Well, yes, that would definitely make it worse. So that was two-to-one against; she absolutely positively wouldn't call him, for sure. But, what if...

Fuck it. She picked up her cell phone, the secure CIA one, and dialed his number.

******

It was thirty-five minutes into the _West Wing_, so it was too late to catch up. Even if he had the balls to strip Alice of the remote and change the channel, he had already missed too much of the plot and the story and the dialogue to understand or enjoy the program. And of course, Alice would get upset--furious even--if he just got up and changed it to the _West Wing_, even though it was his TV, and his remote, and his couch, and his fucking left-over lasagna that he was saving for lunch the next day. So he scrapped the idea, and decided to sit through the rest of _Felicity_.

He never really watched _Felicity_ (actually, come to think of it, he had seen a number of episodes before, with Alice, when they were together the first time. He suddenly remembered how much Alice loved this show; he had forgotten that she never missed an episode.) Anyway, even though he didn't really know that much about the characters, their history, etc., he still, somehow, became interested in the events of the episode. To Michael's understanding, Felicity had traveled back in time (yes, he was confused too; Alice promised to explain later) and she had just dumped Ben in favor of Noel (he didn't very much like this Noel character--he seemed a bit shady) and now she was messing up everyone's lives. Felicity was lost and confused. For the entirety of the show, apparently, Felicity was in the middle, between two people she cared about, and there was nothing but pushing and pulling going on--pushing one away while pulling the other closer, then alternating who was being pushed with the one who was being pulled. 

In Michael's estimation, it was so obvious who Felicity should be with--so why wasn't she with him? There were thousands of reasons, Michael felt, why Felicity should be with Ben instead of Noel (and it wasn't just because he had a bias against Noel). And yes, Felicity and Ben had their problems, their complications, but that didn't matter in the long run, did it? He certainly didn't think so.

Just then Michael realized something--something that would solidify a lot of the thoughts that were swishing around in his head: he realized just how amazing it was, how much resonance and synchronicity _Felicity_ had with his own life.

When _Felicity_ was over, his cell phone rang.

******

Michael was already situated in the storage facility when Sydney walked in. She had hurried in, but suddenly slowed down her pace as she came closer. Tears had already started to emerge, and he took notice immediately.

"What's wrong?"

"Vaughn. I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"I shouldn't have called you."

"No, it's alright. Are you okay?"

Sydney just looked at him, and he realized that it wasn't words that she was looking for--she didn't call on him to chat. So he looked her in the eye, nonverbally indicating that it was going to be all right, whatever it was. And then he wrapped his arms around her.

******

Sydney stood inside his embrace for what seemed like forever. Neither of them said a word, and it was best that they didn't--not right now, at least. She wanted to tell him everything there was to tell, though--her feelings, thoughts, etc.--but she knew that it would amount to exactly the same thing their dinner had amounted to: nothing. She would dish out all the details, and he would listen, and that would pretty much be it. And this was a problem, because Vaughn was all she had.

Vaughn was the only person who really knew her: he was the only one she ever really talked to (the only other person she was allowed to talk to was her father, and understandably she was unable to genuinely communicate with him). At any rate, she felt that Vaughn was there for her, and that she could turn to him in her moments of despair. But this was the harsh reality of it all: she could hand over her confessions to him in a file folder, and it wouldn't make any bit of difference. Just because they were sharing this moment in an embrace didn't mean shit. 

Sydney was in the middle of thinking about how empty all this was, when Vaughn separated his body from hers, just enough so that he could look at her without twisting his neck in an unwieldy way. Then he looked at her intensely, and she looked at him curiously, and then the structures of Sydney's critical thinking came crashing to the floor, because that was when he kissed her.


	4. Step By Step

****

chapter/four// STEP BY STEP

Michael knew there were steps to take, a procedure. As much as he was tempted to just kick her ass to the curb, he knew he wouldn't, couldn't do that—not literally. He was a good-hearted gentleman, Alice was a sensitive woman, they had been together for a long time (minus that short snippet of time they weren't together in-between), and this was the type of news you had to break gently. This was going to be difficult. He could, of course, make it so much easier, and just kick her ass to the curb. But no, he wouldn't do that. Instead he took out an old back issue of _Men's Life_ and opened it to page 74—"Three Easy Steps to Leaving Your Woman"—because this was just what he needed: protocol in order to break protocol.

STEP ONE: THE DROPPING CLUES AND SUBTLE HINTS TO INFORM YOUR WOMAN THAT THE DEMISE OF YOUR RELATIONSHIP IS NEAR, WITHOUT ACTUALLY HAVING TO EXPLAIN WHY (ESPECIALLY IF THERE IS ANOTHER WOMAN) STAGE.

"I don't think this is working out."

"What isn't?"

"This... Us... Our relationship."

Okay, Michael was usually good at being patient and subtle—that was his specialty. He could tell someone he didn't like them by directing a withering stare their way; he could tell someone how he was worried by the number of wrinkles he was able to generate on his forehead; he was even able to show people what a warm and sensitive guy he was by talking about his father. But right now, right here, he was at a loss: subtlety sure as hell wouldn't work. Alice didn't even seem to take the hint when the hint was a direct arrow to her heart.

"Mm-hm. Can we talk about this later? _Trading Spaces_ is on."

Alice brushed off his declaration with a cavalier sense of disregard. He couldn't believe it. Michael looked at her anxiously while she remained focused on the TV. He kept staring at her, though, hoping that she would catch him through her peripheral vision, recognize his urgency, and turn off the TV. She didn't. So he did.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

"Didn't you hear what I said?"

"I was watching that."

"What I said was—"

"I heard what you said."

"And..."

"And what?"

"Well..." This was accompanied by a widening of the eyes, and an overemphasized forward-bend of the head and neck, like a bird trying to peck into Alice's conversational walls; Michael thought the overemphasis, which made him look quite ridiculous actually, would better convey his anticipation of her response.

"Well what?"

"Alice, I just... I said I don't want to see you anymore... What do you have to say about that?"

"Oh... You don't mean that."

"What? Of course I do."

"No you don't."

"What do you mean,_ no I don't_?"

"I mean: you don't mean what you said, even if you think you meant it, you know what I mean?"

"What?"

"What?" was the right question. What the hell did she mean? Actually, the more he thought about it, Michael knew exactly what she meant. Well, not what she meant—but what she was meaning to do. And she always did this. Whenever they were having a conversation, discussion, debate, whatever, and their views opposed each other—which was quite often—Alice would always throw out these verbal assaults, jumbling anything and everything until her adversary's conviction and understanding had all but dissipated in the wind. Michael knew this strategy well, and he wasn't going to fall for it; he was going to throw it right back at her.

"I mean what I meant when I said I meant it, even if you don't think I meant what I meant." Take that, Alice.

"No. You're wrong," Alice replied simply, with hardly a blink.

Okay. So his attempt to emulate her verbal offensive was more like a duck-and-miss rather than a strike-and-blow, but at least he wasn't knocked out of it completely.

"Wrong? How can I be wrong? Our relationship, I don't feel like our relationship is working. How can I be wrong about my own feelings?" Michael felt his tone was getting a little too whiny, too desperate for his taste; he had to regroup, regain composure.

"Feelings can deceive you."

Right. Technically, feelings could deceive you; on a worldly level, that was recognized fact. But this feeling wasn't on a worldly level; this was on a personal, emotional level.

"No. You're wrong." Michael said simply. 

Then there was a silence. Michael felt more comfortable with this silence than Alice did. He had had the last word—the ball was in her court (and not because of a smashing overhead volley, but because of a sneaky drop shot)—which meant it was her turn to respond. The silence indicated her inability to speak, not his.

"Okay," Alice said, "why?"

"Huh?"

"You said our relationship isn't working. I wanna know why."

Michael looked at her. That was a good question. Why? He couldn't tell her the truth, obviously. And if he couldn't tell her about his secret lover (okay, so they'd only had one kiss—and it happened to be at a time when she was vulnerable—but that was more than enough, Michael thought), then what could he tell her? He could tell her... Jesus, he didn't know what to say, and he had to say something.

"There's someone else."

"Really? Who?"

He didn't like the way she said "_really_": the "_ree_" was a little more accented and drawn out than the "_lee"_, and it was a little higher pitched, and it was delivered through a skeptical smirk. And the "_who_" bothered him even more. It was like she was challenging him.

The answer was easy and he wanted to say it like he felt it, like the way she was making him feel right now: Sydney A. Bristow, bitch. 

"Umm."

"Look, Michael. I know you're scared. I am too. I know you feel pressured to... you know... _advance _our relationship. I mean, yeah, we've been together a long time, and then we broke up and now we're back together again. But I'm fine the way we are. Like this. I just wanna take it one step at a time."

One step at a time. Right. "Me too."

******

Sydney knew she wouldn't, couldn't rush into this. They should take it slow (and obviously they had been taking it slow—bills working themselves through Congress moved faster than this). All of that considered, though, _now _was the time. If the past year was them readying themselves on the diving board, right now was the time to step onto the edge of the platform and what-the-hell-just go-for-it. But Sydney wanted to do it right. She wanted Olympic precision: a smooth transition, perfect timing, with hardly a splash. So she hauled herself over to Francie's room, dug through her stack of magazines, pulled out an old issue of _Woman's World_, and turned to page 47—"Three Easy Steps to Winning Over Your Man."

STEP ONE: THE DRESS TO IMPRESS WITHOUT LOOKING LIKE YOU TRIED TOO HARD TO IMPRESS, EVEN THOUGH YOU WANT HIM TO NOTICE AND BE IMPRESSED (BUT NOT REALIZE YOU DID IT ONE PURPOSE) STAGE.

She hadn't seen him since that night, since that kiss. She waited for him in the Mikro Self-Storage anxiously, trying not to be so anxious (for her sake), but to remain just anxious enough that he should realize this meeting was important (for his sake), but not _appear_ too anxious (for both their sakes). She heard footsteps and the gate rattle; then she heard a soft and gentle—

"Hey."

"Hey." 

He walked up closer to her, and kept walking until he was really close, closer than usual.

"Syd." He said.

"Yeah..."

"About last night." He looked down and lightly rubbed his nose.

"The kiss." They both knew what they needed to talk about, so there was no point in beating around the bush, Sydney thought.

"Yeah. The kiss. Um. I'm sorry... about that."

"I'm not." She said. 

He smiled. 

She smiled.

They smiled. They were both smiling at each other. And they couldn't stop smiling. They were both grinning like idiots—and as much they wanted to express their happiness at this recent development in their relationship, they didn't want to look like they had no control of their facial muscles whatsoever.

Michael finally broke his smile.

"You look really pretty today."

Sydney kept smiling.

******

Michael knew he had to apologize, even though he wasn't really all that sorry. It was just that at the warehouse she was miserable and crying, and if he didn't apologize—or at least show some sort of recognition that it wasn't the most appropriate timing for a kiss—then she might have gotten the wrong impression, and marked him as an insensitive, opportunistic bastard. All right, maybe that was a bit harsh, but you never know. And Michael didn't want to leave anything to chance, not after he had made it this far. He didn't want to risk it—he and Sydney were almost there. However, there were still a few more steps to be taken.

The Michael and Sydney movie had been greenlit, but there was still one nagging contract he had to get out of before he could start filming: The Alice Returns movie.

STEP TWO: THE POINTING OUT HER SHORTCOMINGS SO WHEN THE BREAK-UP COMES SHE'LL BE MORE MAD THAN SAD, AND IT'LL SEEM MORE CONSENSUAL (SO YOU WON'T BE THAT GUILTY) STAGE.

It was there again. The damn thing was there again. He couldn't believe she put it back, after all that arguing about it. 

"Where did you get this?" Michael yelled to Alice, who was in the next room. It wasn't the first question that came to mind; the first one was more along the lines of "why?" But he knew the answer to that, so he asked "where?"—because "where" was a better question, because he thought he had hidden it far away and deep down and out of reach. He never thought it would ever get the chance to resurface, even if someone was dedicated to digging it up.

"Get what?" Alice asked.

"Don't play innocent. You know what."

"It was in the closet."

"Yeah, it was in the closet. So why is it on the wall now?"

"Because that's where you hang pictures."

"Alice, I put it away... in the closet... for a reason."

"I don't know what your problem is with it."

"We've been over this. You know how much I hate this picture."

"Well I think you look adorable."

He didn't look adorable. He looked twelve: His eyes were bulging out of its sockets, his goofy smiled turned too far upward on the left side, and his unruly hair went down and back, over and out, all over the place. The lighting didn't help either: he looked like Jonathan Taylor Thomas on the cover of _Bop_ magazine circa 1995. (Granted some people thought JTT—as they affectionately called him—was cute, adorable. But that was beside the point: no grown man aged 30 should ever bear any resemblance to a kid in a teeny bopper pin up.) This picture was detestable and ignominious, and Alice thought it was darling and precious. That had to say something.

"There's a reason I took it down."

"Well... if you really hated it that much, you would've burned it or something."

That was true. Why didn't he burn it? Was that saying something, the fact that he didn't burn it, that he just buried it under some old sweaters? Perhaps underneath it all he had a fondness for it, a deep sentiment too dear to let go. 

"No. I hate this picture. And I hate that you actually took it out and put it back up." Michael said conclusively, while he yanked the frame off the wall, marched over to the hallway closet, and threw the damn thing back in with reckless abandon.

The truth was, Alice did things like this all the time. It was wasn't a big deal, really; it's just for some reason, these things bothered him. And it wasn't just things she did, but also things she had, things she wore, things she talked about, things she liked. Michael had plenty to bitch about.

(Some of the things—in case you were wondering—in order of descending annoyance factor: She drove a station wagon—you know the ones that look like a log cabin with those wood panels along the side. What's worse, she had a _Vote Perot '96_ bumper sticker proudly adhered to the back. When she wasn't in business dress, she liked to wear those baby-T's that said—in embossed silver font, glitter and all—things like "_girlfriend_," or "_Angel_," with a halo over the "_A_." And the worst thing that she did—the thing that bothered Michael the most—was that she appended a "th" sound to end of the word "height." There was no such word as"heigh_th_." Oh, and one more thing: her favorite c.d. of all time was _Now! That's What I Call Music Volume 5_. Michael wasn't sure if this relationship was worth all that.)

******

"Hey Syd."

"Hey."

Francie sat down beside her on the couch. They hadn't talked since their fight about... she didn't know, something about poetry or bank stuff, or whatever.

"What are you watching." Francie eased into conversation.

"Law and Order."

"Criminal Intent?"

"Mm-hm."

"You know, there are better things to watch at nine o'clock on Sunday."

"I know... it's just... it's been pre-empted this week."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"So."

"... so."

"Listen Syd." Francie turned her body to directly face Sydney.

"No, Fran, you don't have to apologize."

"Yeah, I do."

"Then I need to apologize too. I know I haven't been around a whole lot. It's just..."

"I understand... Actually, I don't really, because what the hell kind of bank makes you fly around the globe week after week and... I guess I'm trying to apologize. So. I'm sorry. I yelled at you. Last time."

"I'm sorry I haven't been there for you."

There. They made up. Finally. This whole thing had been eating away at Sydney ever since she was unable to return the door slam.

"So... you wanna go out tomorrow? Do some girl stuff?"

Sydney gave her a soft smile.

Francie understood: "You have another trip."

Sydney usually didn't like it when she had another trip, but this wasn't going to be just another trip: It wasn't sanctioned by SD-6; it was CIA. And her partner wasn't going to be Dixon; it was going to be Michael Vaughn.


	5. This Lil' Game We Play

****

chapter/five// THIS LIL' GAME WE PLAY

Michael had to admit he was a little bit excited for this mission. He didn't know what they were doing yet—Devlin had yet to brief him completely—but what he did know about it was enough: He and Sydney were going to Paris. Sydney! Paris! He hadn't felt like this in quite a while. The last time he was so pumped to pack his bags—specifically filling it with form-fitting black clothes and bulletproof vests and guns with silencers—and slap a fake ID tag on it was a couple years ago, when Devlin decided to let him crawl out from beneath the manila folders piled on his desk and get a little more involved in an operation. Since then he's been on a couple more minor missions (most of them recently, most of them because of Sydney). But now, it was him. And it was Sydney. And it was Paris. And—though he didn't want to get ahead of himself (but being a guy, he couldn't help but imagine the possibilities)—it was him and Sydney in Paris... in a hotel.

When Michael arrived at CIA headquarters, Sydney was already there waiting for him. He smiled and she smiled back—an unspoken understanding. Devlin walked up and handed them each a file folder. 

Michael knew this file folder contained more than just mission details. The operation, the op-tech, the saving-of-the-world. That part was good and all. But more important was the potential energy it carried for Michael and Sydney; after all, there was nothing like the City of Lights to bring out the romantic charge in both of them. If he was right about this file folder, Michael thought, the next level (in the deep, emotional sense) and the next step (in the physical sense, meaning, well... sex) in their relationship was only a plane ride away.

"Inside are pictures of undercover operatives." Devlin said as a way of introduction, referring to the folders. "They operate out of a nightclub in Paris."

Michael's folder contained a black-and-white head shot of an alluring and strikingly beautiful blond. Sydney's had a more surveillance oriented shot of the male equivalent. 

"Trishelle Beavoduer, she's a model. Frequents the nightclub circuit, but is regularly seen entertaining the V.I.P. section of the Escape nightclub in Paris." Devlin then turned to Sydney: "Andrew Nysmith is the bartender at Escape."

"Why are we interested in them?" Sydney asked.

"Both have dealings with international terrorist groups and we have reason to believe each one has access codes on their computer—codes that we need to unlock classified information. Agent Vaughn, your mission is to... interact... with Beavoduer and get her to take you to her home—she makes her permanent residence at the La Tour Hotel next door to the club. Agent Bristow, same thing with Nysmith."

"Why can't we just break in?" Michael asked.

"We don't have the op-tech or the patience to hack through each one of their security systems. They take preventative measures at every step. One wrong move and the mission is a failure. We figured it would be easier to let them invite you inside."

"And how are we supposed to get them to do that?"

"Because they only deal with confirmed and established associates, you have to take the more pedestrian route, and convince them your intentions are purely social."

"So we're supposed to try to hook up." said Michael rather dryly.

"If that's what you kids are calling it these days, then yes. Your jet is standing by. Good luck."

So. This wasn't exactly what Michael had envisioned. It was ironic, he thought, and not in the annoying, yet tolerable Alanis Morissette kind of way. As if it wasn't complicated enough having Alice still clinging to their relationship by her fingernails while he was currently trying to find steady ground in the unstable first throes of a new romance, now he had to worry about Sydney hooking up with Andrew Nysmith, all the while trying to hook himself up with Trishelle Beavoduer (a model, for fucksake). By the time he got to the plane, all prior enthusiasm and anticipation had vanished from his system. 

******

Once they arrived in Paris, Sydney went straight to her hotel room and got ready. She slipped on a little black number that did all the things anything little and black should do: her boobs were propped, her hips had attitude, her legs extended far into the heavens, her shoulders glistened in the moonlight. She didn't want to seem to seem egotistical, but if she was honest, she had to admit this mission wasn't going to be much of a problem.

Vaughn arrived, and looked surprisingly handsome—although she wasn't really all that surprised. After all, when did Vaughn not look handsome? No, it was just that she had never seen him look so cas-cute (casual, but cute, for those not familiar), wearing not his traditional suit and tie, but a sleek, stylish, monochromatic ensemble that looked both GQ and J. Crew at the same time.

"Ready?" His tone sounded a little awkward, and Sydney couldn't blame him. They had been standing across from each for a few moments now, and neither verbalized a salutation (just two quick nods and a smile) when they first came together. So now that a small, yet significant, amount of time had passed, it was no longer appropriate to say hi. And since they had spent that small, yet significant amount of time checking each other out (trying, of course, to be cool and sly about it), they couldn't say something to the effect of "you look nice" because that would, you know, bring attention to the fact that they had been checking each other out. The only thing to say, really, was something that would move things along, something that would indicate a need to go. Sydney was glad Vaughn had finally spoken up.

"Yeah." She responded. She took a small step forward, but Vaughn didn't move.

"What?" She noticed he was struck by her dress, but she didn't like the way he looked a little bothered.

"Nothing." 

"What is it?"

"It's no big deal."

"No. What? Is there a hole I don't see?"

"No. It's just... I can see your..."

The corners of Sydney's mouth crept into a little smile. "What?"

"You know..." This was the type of "you know" you said when you didn't want the actual word to pass your lips. Sydney knew that, but she couldn't resist.

"My what?"

"It's just, your dress is black, but then up there, it's not... _solid_ black."

"Yeah, I know." She said casually, managing to contain only half of what would be a devilish grin.

"Oh." 

"So are we ready to go?"

"Uh-huh."

******

The scene was so self-consciously hip he wouldn't be surprised if Pharell nudged Busta Rhymes to pass the Courvoisier. It was a nightclub in Paris, so he expected it to be like this.

Michael was okay with it, for the most part. On the way over, he had mentally prepared himself; he ran through a few scenarios in his head, like some of the things he would say to Beavoduer, and some others things he would say if the conversation were to take a certain direction. The hard thing, though, was the pick-up. Just how do you pick up a model? He mentally cycled through Weiss's pick-up line rolodex, from what he could remember from the good ol' days, when he and Weiss used to play the field. He remembered a couple of lines Weiss used extensively, and stashed them in his back-pocket for easy access. He felt okay, but then he remembered how Weiss's lines never actually _worked_. 

He had to think up a contingency plan, because the last thing he wanted was to fail a mission. But if he was completely honest, the real last thing he wanted was to showcase his inadequacies in front of Sydney. And that was the problem: this was more about Sydney than it was about Beavoduer, more about himself than about the mission.

The one thing he liked about his relationship with Sydney was that he never had to do the guy thing. He never had to hit on her at a bar, or a coffee shop, or Costco, or wherever. They never had to go through that weird "I'll call you some time" phase—the one right after you meet and exchange numbers, and then wait two days, and then think about calling, and then pick up the phone and hang it up several times before dialing and hoping for some strange reason you'd get the machine. 

No, he and Sydney were different. Very different actually. Granted, a year-long courtship avoidance ritual wasn't exactly the preferred method for getting a girlfriend, but he liked it that way, since he'd rather avoid the unpleasant pleasantries that occur between the dating-scene-incarnations of two new and potential lovers. Michael knew it sounded odd, and he did feel a little too silly for his own good. He supposed this was like the relationship equivalent of not liking showers, of being the little kid who made it through by pretending: he turned on the water and left it running, allowed the mirrors to steam, foamed up the soap, and soaked the towel a little bit. In the end it was harder and required more energy and ingenuity, but if it provided a way to avoid the real thing, then Michael wouldn't mind toughing it out.

******

Sydney sauntered over to the bar, attitude in tow. Andrew Nysmith approached almost immediately.

"What can I get you?" He asked. He had ignored two other girls who were there before her, and the lasses looked Sydney up and down before withdrawing from the bar, indignant. This cleared up a space, and Sydney claimed it for herself. She lessened the gap between her and Nysmith, and placed her elbows on the counter as she intimately leaned in.

"Vodka martini. Three olives, not two." 

She had consciously invaded his personal space, and she could tell he was taking the bait.

"Coming right up." he said in a hushed tone. They were so close their faces were practically touching; there was no need to talk any louder. He reluctantly backed up, and began preparing her drink.

Sydney sat down and made herself comfortable. As she was waiting, she looked around and surveyed the room for anything interesting, as one is bound to do during any intermediate period of slight boredom. She saw Vaughn out of the corner of her eye, and wondered if he had already spotted her. 

******

Michael knew he wasn't as bad as he was making himself out to be. Just because he didn't like this part, the hitting-on-her-like-she-was-your-next-meal part, didn't necessarily mean he wasn't good at it. (In school, he never liked creative writing, but he still managed to score A's.) And when he thought about it, he had more good things going for him than bad things going against him. 

He was good-looking enough. He didn't know exactly _how_ good-looking, in terms of how he ranked on a one to ten scale. Comparatively speaking though, he was confident he'd top the curve: He was certainly more good-looking than most of the guys here, like that guy on the dance floor, doing the cabbage-patch; and that guy at the bar wearing the sombrero; and a lot of other guys milling about, looking dull and bland. He liked to think he was looking sharp and classy—but that was the thing: he didn't know if anyone else thought he was looking sharp and classy. What if he was wrong—what if his self-perception was tainted by an inexplicable case of vanity—and he actually ended up blending in with the dull and bland nobodys by the bar? He'd spend the majority of the night sulking alongside the odd assortment of rejects, looking wistfully upon the females as if they were trophies they'd never win. 

On second thought (or maybe it was the third or fourth thought), Michael concluded that that wouldn't happen. And anyway, he had to stop thinking about it. Thinking about something never got you anywhere; he just had to go for it.

******

STEP TWO: THE PLAY THE GAME (AND MAKE YOUR MAN A LITTLE JEALOUS) IN ORDER TO LET HIM KNOW THAT "I CAN HAVE ANY MAN I WANT TO; BABY THAT'S ACTUAL AND IT'S FACTUAL, BUT STILL I CHOOSE YOU" STAGE.

This was what she found out about Nysmith in the short amount of time they had been conversing: He was British, but moved to Paris a couple years ago, because he liked it better here. He only worked the bar at night; during the day he worked at a bank (uh-huh). He liked listening to Soft Cell. And he was single. All of this in a matter of minutes... Sydney knew she had Nysmith wrapped around her little finger.

She wasn't the type that prided herself on her flirting skills, and she wasn't the naive girl-girl who believed what she read in magazines, but she couldn't help but look in Vaughn's direction to see if he was checking her shit out.

******

Michael hoped that Sydney wasn't watching him. He was about to make his move, and the last thing he needed was more pressure. He adjusted his collar, straightened his shirt, ruffled his hair so that it looked stylishly disheveled, and observed his prey. He had thought it through, and he was to do the following: He would look at Beavoduer, and pretending that he had just noticed her, show interest by moving toward her (whether she would notice or not wasn't important; this was for his sake, to get him in the groove). Then he would sit somewhat close to where she was sitting—close enough that if she regarded his presence they could start talking, but far enough that if she was blind to his moves, he could still get up and try another flirting route. Michael was ready to initiate the plan, when he noticed something else had happened, something that took him completely by surprise, something that threw everything out of order: Beavoduer was already checking him out.


	6. Kick Your Game

****

chapter/six// KICK YOUR GAME

You know that feeling of doubt you got when you saw someone you sort of knew across the room, and he waved, but the direction of his wave was so ambiguous that you didn't know whether he was waving at you or someone behind you? And you were tempted to turn around and verify, but that would make you look stupid (because there was no way of disguising your intent); the safe thing to do was wave back (because in the event that he _was_ waving at someone behind you, you could always pretend you were waving at someone behind _him_). Or you could just ignore him.

That was how Michael felt about Beavoduer, and the direction of her smiles and seductive looks. He was almost sure they were being presented to him, but how sure was he? Certainly not sure enough to walk over and graciously deliver an acceptance speech. He didn't know what to do; so using the process of elimination, he decided to offer her a return smile (assuming of course that the smile was for him). He didn't want to check behind him, because that would knock down his front of ego and cool. And he didn't want to ignore her, because that certainly wouldn't get him anywhere. His best bet was the delicate, yet visible, return smile: If the initiating smile was indeed for him, then the return smile would be enough to show he was interested, and at the same time maybe even show he was a gentleman; if the initiating smile wasn't for him, then the return smile could always be transformed and interpreted as the initiating smile, and it would be enough to show he was interested, and at the same time maybe even show he was a gentleman. That was good for now, but he didn't know what to do next. He still wasn't sure if Beavoduer was looking at him.

Then Beavoduer stood up, and all doubt was erased from his mind, because she walked right up to his face.

"I saw you looking at me," she said bluntly.

"Yeah." 

Yeah? That was all he could come up with. Yeah? He might as well have said "affirmative," such was the nature of his response. He had to say something else other than "yeah." He wanted to say something clever and winning, but too much time had elapsed (why did he always have to pause to think?) and adding a comment would be odd conversational timing. He didn't want to prove himself even more inept.

"Yeah," she finally said. "So... you game?"

"Game for what?"

She pulled at his shirt sleeve, urging him to follow her. He didn't have to think this one through very much—the only thing to do was follow her, even though he didn't know where they were going, or what he was supposed to be game about.

******

At first Sydney thought she was making real headway. It was great when she and Nysmith started talking, but now the flirtations and small talk had turned into A Conversation, and it was really draining her resources. She was good at acting—pretending to be innocent when she wasn't, to be helpless when she wasn't, to be a banker when she wasn't, and in this case, to be interested when she wasn't. But Nysmith was really pushing the limits of her acting abilities. How much longer could she keep at this?

"I mean... what happened, what did she want, what went wrong?" Nysmith was saying, referring to his ex-girlfriend, who has been the topic of a very one-sided conversation for about fourteen minutes now.

"Who knows," Sydney offered. She could have offered much more insight, but seeing as she was trying to get along with him, she decided against pointing out his very obvious shortcomings.

"So just like that, she packed up and left. Didn't even tell me..." he continued.

She and Francie used to do this thing when they went out to bars and clubs and stuff, where if one of them was stuck with some asinine fool or some greasy pick-up artist or anyone equally ill-flavored, the other would come to the rescue. (Sydney often wanted to tell Francie the truth about her job, only so they could take advantage of the earpieces and com links.) Sitting here listening to this man babble on about his life (love life, to be precise), Sydney decided that a rescue was exactly what she needed: she wanted Francie to storm through the doors in a frenzy, rush over to the bar, and tell Andrew Nysmith that she was very sorry, but something very terrible had happened, that Sydney's husband was in the hospital, and she needed Sydney to attend to him right away. Except, of course, that wouldn't happen, because Francie wasn't here (there would be a real problem if she was, wouldn't there?) and because, more importantly, she was supposed to see this through.

So she sat there. And he talked. Occasionally, she would interject the concurring "mm-hm" or "uh-huh" or "yeah, I know exactly what you mean"—just to let him know, in case there was any doubt, that she was listening. And every once in a while, she would casually try to sneak a peek at Vaughn. At the moment he appeared to be making more progress than she was—because while Nysmith was blabbering away, Beavoduer was leading Vaughn to the dance floor.

******

"What's wrong?" Beavoduer asked him. She had led him to the dance floor, and he was just standing there. She was probably wondering why he was hesitant to shake his groove thang.

Michael used to be confident about his dancing; that is, until Weiss burst his bubble, and kindly reminded him: "Don't forget, you're white." Of course, he couldn't use his idiot best friend as an excuse, so he responded in typical Michael Vaughn fashion.

"Nothing."

She wasn't buying it, and thus ventured a wild, but not altogether invalid, guess: "What, you have a girlfriend?"

Two actually. One can't take a hint and the other just got the hint. "No."

"Then there's no problem."

"None at all."

"But you obviously don't want to dance."

She was sharp, he thought—and not just keen on things, but also direct and to-the-point. (If only the women in his life were like this, things would be so much easier.)

"No."

"Okay then. Come with me."

She took his hand, and led him away from the dance floor. There weren't any other options, really, so he went with it. They were moving towards the back of the club—and since Beavoduer was in front, he had the opportunity to look over his shoulder at Sydney. At that precise moment, she had caught a glimpse of him, and that was the first eye contact they had made all night. Unlike before, he didn't mind that now she was aware of his progress, that now she was witnessing a beautiful model dragging him to some undisclosed area in the back. If he was not mistaken, there was a trace of concern in her eyes, and maybe even a spot of jealousy. Forgive him, but he liked it. Was that so wrong?

******

Sydney couldn't believe it: she was engaged in a boring, if somewhat peculiar, discussion about Nysmith's past relationship crisis, and Vaughn was trotting off to be alone with Beavoduer. She had to scoot this along.

"I'm just confused. And I'm hurt... that's all." 

"Yeah." Sydney hoped her "yeah" sounded like a conclusive period, rather than a prompt for further elaboration. It appeared as if Nysmith's vituperation of his ex-girlfriend (he got a little harsh as the commentary wore on) was coming to a close, and she wanted to seal it for good. 

"I mean, I remember when..." he continued. 

This was ridiculous. She wanted to shake some sense into the guy. She wanted to throw her drink in his face and scream: "Look fool. You have this woman in front of you, wearing a teeny weeny black dress, and she wants nothing but to get you horizontal. And all you can do is go on and on about your ex? Come on!" She'd had enough of this, and interrupted him mid-sentence.

"Look."

He stopped immediately.

"I don't know about you, but I wanna get out of here."

"Well... I mean, my shift ends in an hour."

"No."

"No?"

"You're shift ends now."

"Oh, does it?" His tone was playful. Sydney thought it sounded inappropriately smug, as if he truly believed that their conversation had driven her wild with desire, and she couldn't contain herself anymore. She didn't mind though. Smug was better than stupid. And she needed to move things along anyway. 

Nysmith called out for another bartender to take over for him. 

"Okay, where should we go?" he asked Sydney.

"Somewhere where we can be alone."

"I'm staying at the hotel next door, La Tour," he said proudly, obviously trying to hint at the magnificence of what he could afford.

Now he was smug _and_ stupid, Sydney thought. The seasoned spy she was, she knew you were never supposed to admit you were staying at a hotel when you had just said you had lived in the city for years. Add to that the fact that the hotel was the ritzy, extravagant kind, and you were posing as a banker/bartender... Oh well. This was what she needed him to do, and now he was doing it. Sydney didn't want to complain.

******

Beavoduer had taken him to an empty room (as in no people) in the back: There were some things stored on the shelves, and the crates were full of supplies, but Michael supposed that people made use of the tables in other ways. 

"Okay. Let's do it," she said.

"What?" He wasn't asking "what" as in "let's do _what_?" It was merely a reactionary response to momentary confusion. He was pretty sure he knew what she meant by "let's do it." "It" meant _it_, right?

"You wanna fuck, no?"

Guess so. "It" meant _it_. Apparently Beavoduer took his unwillingness to dance as a sign that he wanted to go straight for the nookie. (But this wasn't possible, Michael thought. How could it be this easy? Surely this routine wouldn't work with Sydney: "Hey Syd, I don't want to dance." "Okay, then strip down to your skivvies and hop in bed, big boy.") Anyway, the mission was to get into Beavoduer's computer, not her panties. He had to fend her off for the moment.

"No... I mean. _Yeah_. But..."

"But what?"

Yeah. But what? That was a good question. If he were to tell the twenty-five year old Michael that in a few years time a model with a name like Trishelle Beavoduer would be presenting him with the opportunity for a quick fuck, and he would be trying to _talk her out of it_, the younger version of himself would have laughed in his face. Michael didn't know what to say. So he didn't say anything. 

"Look. I think you're cute. And you seem like a nice guy. But it's obvious what we both want. So let's skip the bullshit and get right to it."

"I understand, but don't you think we should—" Just then she jumped at him, and before he knew it, he was lying on his back, on the floor, with a gung-ho model straddling his middle region. He choked out the rest of his sentence. "... don't you think we should, you know... we should do it properly?"

"What are you, an after-school special?" She began kissing his neck.

"No. But I was just thinking that maybe, you know, we could go some place else. I mean, how long can we stay here? And how comfortable could you possibly be on the floor?"

"Who said _I _was going to be on the floor?"

He looked up at her. She smiled down at him.

"Okay. I see," she said. "You're sensitive. The romantic type. That's fine. I'm staying at La Tour. We can go there."

"That sounds good," he breathed. It was back to the mission.

"Good. And I assume you want to use a condom. No problem. They have a gift shop on the first floor."

She dismounted him and proceeded to the door. Michael once again followed.

******

So the first part was a little harder than it should have been, Sydney thought. But it wasn't important now: she had retrieved the codes, and Nysmith was lying unconscious (but comfortably) on his bed. Never mind that it took twenty-nine torturous minutes of conversation (yes, she counted) to get into his suite, and never mind that when she finally did get into his suite, Nysmith welcomed her with the subtle opening line "the bed's over there." She had completed the mission as planned, and she no longer had to hear about how Nysmith's ex-girlfriend didn't like to have sex with him when his dog was in the room. All there was to do now was wait for Vaughn.

******

Michael didn't like it: If there was anything he felt more uncomfortable doing than buying tampons, it was buying condoms—especially when you were in a gift shop full of people, especially when you were with someone who felt compelled to loudly discuss the options with you.

"So... what? Latex, no?"

"Yeah, yeah. That's fine," he whispered. 

He nodded frantically and moved away from the condom rack (and he didn't think there would be such a wide selection at a hotel gift shop; three or four brands, yes. But this...) He had hoped that by heading toward the register, he had indicated that he was fine with whatever was in her hand, and there was no need to review further selections. But it didn't happen like that; Beavoduer wasn't satisfied. She tugged at his shirt, but he continued to get in line.

"Okay. So Durex? LifeStyles? Trojan?" she called out.

He had made a mistake by moving so far away—it only caused her to talk louder. An older couple in shop regarded them with a dirty look; a younger couple by the register regarded them with a mock _dirty_ look.

He hurried back. "Trojan's fine," he said in a hushed voice.

"Ultra pleasure, ultra texture, very sensitive, shared sensation, ribbed?

"Whatever."

"Or do you need magnum?"

"Uh."

"All right. How about flavor?"

"Flavor?"

"Strawberry, chocolate, mint, cinnamon."

"Umm..."

"Oh." He saw her look at him with newfound clarity. "You're probably not into that."

Michael was tired of Beavoduer thinking he was some sexless stiff (pardon the oxymoronic pun). He had to do or say something to convince her that he was a... he was a... sexpert (this was a Weiss word, and he resented that this was the only word he could come up with). Anyway, he had to prove that all this—the condom shopping and the going-back-to-the-hotel—was worth it, and that Beavoduer wouldn't regret going through all this trouble when they could have easily had a quickie, good or bad, back at the club (even though he knew they weren't really going to do anything. He only wanted to make her believe.)

"No. Just that it's your call. You want it fresh or sweet or spicy?" He tried to say it with a sexy husk in his voice, but it came out sounding really corny anyway. Oh well... it was good enough.

"Mint, then," she said.

"Okay."

She took the Trustex mint-flavored condoms to the register.

"You know, we sell singles of those," the cashier remarked, referring to the twelve count box Beavoduer was purchasing.

"No. That's all right," she said. "We're going to need more than a few."

Michael wondered how the hell he got in this situation, and why the hell he was so anxious to get out of it. What was wrong with this picture?


	7. Back Seat of My Jeep

**chapter/seven// BACK SEAT OF MY JEEP (S/V EXTENDED REMIX)**

Michael was sitting on the edge of Beavoduer's bed, waiting. He was supposed to have slipped her a sleeping agent right when they entered her bedroom, but she was so quick to excuse herself to the bathroom ("Let me slip into something more comfortable," she said) that he was never given the chance. So that was why he was sitting and waiting, instead of hacking and downloading.

He was anxious to get this mission over with right away, but breaking into her computer was the wrong move at the moment—she could step out any second. He was right, because in a second the door swung open, and out came Beavoduer. Completely and utterly naked. Naked. Speaking of comfortable... Michael stopped for a second. He needed to do something. Now. 

What would James Bond do in this situation?

Well, okay... so he knew exactly what James Bond would do in this situation. He was approaching this all wrong; what he was trying to do was think of someone or something that would provide an example, footsteps for him to follow. But James Bond was the wrong candidate for model behavior. Who else was there, though? Sydney?

What would Sydney do in this situation? Michael asked himself this question, then realized that Sydney probably _was in this situation (maybe not exactly, but something like it), and he didn't want to think about Sydney in this situation with another guy. How about... how about if Sydney was with him right now, then what would she do? It would be him and Sydney and Beavoduer in this hotel room and... oh, maybe he shouldn't think about that._

(To be clear, the thing that was causing all the confusion was not the prospect of having sex with a beautiful model, but the procedure for completing the assignment. Michael was no James Bond, in more ways than one. That was fact. And sure, the mission was dead simple, but that was why you messed up sometimes, wasn't it? The simplicity deceived you, and because you weren't careful—since you didn't think you needed to be—you ended up faltering at one point or another. Michael wouldn't let that happen to him. He was so close...)

Beavoduer approached the bed slowly, which Michael found odd, only because she was so pumped and ready to go a long time ago. Had her eagerness subsided? Or had she fallen to Michael's romantic charm? Either way, her leisurely stroll to the bed gave Michael the chance to feel around his pockets for the sleeping agent. As she drew closer, he pulled it out and injected her with it (the sleeping agent, that is). She fell gracefully onto the side of the bed, and Michael pushed her toward the center, so she wouldn't fall off. Needless to say, he felt weird doing it. It wasn't every day you'd have to position a naked and unconscious female on a bed, moving her legs and arms this way and that. He shifted her into what he figured was a comfortable sleeping posture. Then he hacked onto her computer and retrieved the codes, just as he was supposed to. There. It was done. Mission accomplished.

As he was leaving he felt a twinge of guilt about abandoning her like this. All naked and unconscious. Then he remembered what the guys at op-tech had said: the sleeping agent would induce sleep as well as memory loss. That made him feel better—she wouldn't remember him or the club or the back room or the condom shopping. Sure, she would probably wonder why she was naked. But then again, Michael thought, it wasn't too improbable that she was the type to fall asleep like so. He grabbed the box of condoms off the night stand—to make sure he didn't leave any evidence that would jog her memory—and made his way to the plane.

* * * * * *                   

"What took you so long?" Sydney snapped at Vaughn as he boarded the plane.

She hadn't meant to be so bitchy, but Nysmith had depleted her patience supply, including the reserves, and she had been waiting on this damn plane for too damn long.

"Sorry. It took longer than I expected. There were a few detours." 

He handed her the disk, and she popped it into her laptop. They were in the back of a cargo plane, so he took a seat on the floor across from her crate, which she used to create a chair out of the only elevated surface.

* * * * * *                               

He wanted to say something to her—she was just sitting there, minding her laptop—but he didn't know what to say. They were on a mission, and small talk wouldn't be entirely appropriate, mostly because she seemed to be so focused on her computer. He had to bring up a related topic. But he couldn't ask her how her mission went; they had been in the air for thirty minutes, and bringing up that topic now would be like going up to someone on a Thursday and asking them how their weekend was.

"So did we get anything?" he asked. She looked up at him. "The disks. Did we get any intel?" 

"I don't know. I'm still working on the decryption." She offered a smile, and returned to her computer.

* * * * * *

Sydney didn't know why she was ignoring him. She was still hung over from this mood that Nysmith had put her in, and as a result she was done—absolutely finished—with being patient. So why was she pretending to work on her laptop? Why was she not doing anything? All Vaughn was doing was looking around, taking in the view of the cargo plane, which was nothing but a panorama of black.

STEP THREE: THE JUST-FUCKING-DO-IT STAGE.

She slammed her laptop shut, threw it to the side, and looked directly at Vaughn. 

* * * * * *

Sydney had closed her laptop and was looking directly at him. Her eyes upon his eyes. Was he missing something? Or was he misinterpreting this? Perhaps what he saw as a sexy look of seduction was actually a very intense celebratory eye dance that she was doing because she had just retrieved the intel. That had to be it, because Sydney had never made anything even slightly resembling a move this whole time. Why would this be any different? Michael was about to congratulate her on her computing wizardry when she unexpectedly stood up. She moved closer, and kneeled down, her face oh-so-close to his. And then she kissed him.

* * * * * *

It had gotten physical fairly quickly, meaning they were horizontal and rolling around in no time. Michael knew where this was leading, and how fast they would get there. So he knew what he had to do right now; he just wasn't sure if he should do it. 

The condoms were there, in his back pocket, and he wanted pull them out. But he didn't want Sydney to get the wrong idea and think that he came prepared—or worse, think that he had brought them for Beavoduer. There was no way around it, except for the truth, and the truth sounded like more of a lie than any lie he could think of. 

Maybe he could slip it on without her noticing. Oh, but that would be ridiculous—as if Sydney wasn't a spy, as if she wasn't capable of noticing things. The other option would be to not use one, just this one time. But he couldn't do that; he had to be safe—and not because he believed Sydney was carrying any diseases. It was just that he didn't know about her preferred method of birth control (pills?), which was normal enough, because when had they ever needed to discuss something like that? Never. Except now. But now was not the best time to talk; now was the best time to just do it.

"What's this?" Sydney asked, referring to the bulge of his back pocket, the area of his ass that she was groping.

"Oh. That's..."

She yanked the box from his pocket.

"That was from... um... Beavoduer got..."

She put a finger to his mouth, the universal signal to shut up. She pulled out a condom. And Sydney, ever the multi-tasking expert, began unwrapping it while working on his zipper. 

She wasted no time (which was understandable, because there was no time to waste), and before Michael knew it, they were using the back of the cargo jet much in the same manner LL Cool J used the back seat of his jeep. 

They were doing it on the floor, with a single beam of light overhead. He knew what this looked like—the stage adaptation of _Sydney's Wild Ride—but he didn't care. All he knew was that this was not something to be included in the debrief._


End file.
